“Thank you for saying yes. My brother is going to be so thrilled.”
I blink, trying to connect the dots between the work project and her brother.
“Why would he be excited?”
Another grin comes my way. “He runs the club.”
The ultimate record scratch rends the air, and the whole place goes silent.
I’m imagining things. She can’t possibly have said that.
Not the guy who signs my checks. Not the guy I genuinely look up to. Not the guy who’s awesome to work for.
I must have heard her wrong. “He runs the club?” I ask, in a voice that barely sounds like my own.
“Archer. He’s my brother. You probably know him.”
I drop my head in my hands as all my luck drains away.
6
Fact one: I just had the best first date of my life.
Fact two: I want to kiss her again and again, and pretty much do everything else with her that you do without clothes.
Fact three: She seems to want the same things I do.
Fact four: She’s London Hollis. My boss’s little sister.
That final fact obviates everything that precedes it. Doesn’t matter how true facts one to three are. Nothing can come of them.
I’ve been there. I’ve done that.
I’m not getting on that merry-go-round again.
That’s where things got messy with Tracy.
Or messier, I should say. I worked for her father, and we were all kinds of connected.
Tracy and I met at a Decemberists show at the Roxy and started dating quickly. Turned out our mutual love of music was more than a hobby, and she introduced me to her dad, the president of Loud Nation, the largest collective of radio stations on the West Coast. He pulled some strings and got me a plum gig hosting my own show. Sure, that show was on-air at four in the morning, but it was still mine, a dream come true. In that satellite studio in Hollywood, DJ Insomnia was born. I was building a name for myself, ascending the ranks way faster than I could have on my own.
But when everything went belly-up with Tracy, so did the job with Loud Nation. Tracy pulled the rug out from under our relationship, and the whole house of vinyl came tumbling down. Her father terminated my show, and effectively barred me from doing anything else with Loud Nation. End of side A, please flip the record over.
Like I was the one who needed to be taught a lesson.
But I learned it the hard way. And now I live it, abiding by my own rules regardless of what company policy dictates. Don’t mix work and dating. Don’t date coworkers, clients, or business partners. Don’t take out the boss’s daughter, the boss’s sister, or the boss’s second cousin.
I’m not interested in taking those risks again. I’d be a fool.
This time, I’m doing things on my own. I’m making good money and having a great time working at the club. I’ve got my weekly show on-air with the local public radio station. The pay isn’t great, but I have more control over the music I play, and the time slot is better. I have to stay focused—I’ve worked too hard to get back to this spot post-Tracy.
I can’t chance sliding to the starting block again, especially when there’s a raise on the line. I want that raise. Just as soon as I hit the one-year mark next month.
After I pay the check and walk London to her car, I inhale the salty ocean air and then I level with her. We’ve been honest all along. No reason to stop now.
“Look, I would love nothing more than to see you again and take you out again and kiss you again. And I’m just going to be totally blunt—I want to take you home.”
She lowers her face and presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose, right under her glasses. “I want all that too, and I feel like such an idiot.”
My heart lurches toward her. I want to reassure her.
But I can’t. If I don’t say this, I will push her up against the car, pull those glasses off her face, and kiss her under the moon until we both see stars.
“But there are club rules,” I say. “No messing around with employees, and even if those rules didn’t exist, you’re my boss’s sister.” It sounds like a joke when it comes out of my mouth, like karma is fucking with me, and I honestly don’t know what I’ve done to piss off the cosmic gods.
Her brown eyes lock with mine, and she lifts her arm like she’s going to squeeze mine or grab my wrist. But she must think better of it because she drops her hand back to her side. “No, Teddy. I didn’t mean to put you in a bad place. I should have thought of that—my brother and the club rules and all. But I met you and we had a connection, and I guess I thought . . .” She slows down, meets my eyes again with that fire in hers, and in a softer voice says, “We had such an intense spark that I honestly wasn’t thinking about rules. The whole time at dinner, I was in the moment, having a good time. A great time.”
I reach my hand behind my neck and squeeze. Tension radiates through my body. I need to find a way to release this energy other than slamming my mouth to hers because that is one of the coolest things a woman has ever said to me—that she was so caught up in the energy, the chemistry, that she wasn’t thinking about games or rules or how things are supposed to be, or if you call someone after the first date or not. Things I’m honestly not sure about either, but would want to figure out with her.
But here we are, cutting it off already. “Listen, tonight was great. I’m pretty sure it’s going to go down in a hall of records somewhere as the best first date ever.”
She smiles, soft and warm and so genuine. “It definitely is. There’s no way anybody anywhere ever had a better first date than us.”
I try not to grin like a fool. But it’s impossible when she says stuff like that. “Let’s just be honest. We set the bar tonight. This was the best first date in the history of time.”
“It absolutely was. People will be talking about it for ages,” she says, her smile making my heart flip.
Which isn’t helpful.
Not one bit.
“But, listen, my last relationship was all tangled up with work and family stuff. I need this job,” I say. “And I can’t. I just can’t.”
She holds up a hand, her voice so understanding. “You don’t have to justify anything to me. I totally get it. We’re on the same page. We are 100 percent on the same page, and I’m sorry I didn’t think about it before. I should have. I really should have.” She flicks me a flirty look, like she’s so damn good at. “But you’re kind of adorable.”
“Adorable?”
“Adorable is a good thing. Do not question the adorable compliment. It’s up there with hot, sexy, and smoking, but kind of better. In a class by itself.”
Here I thought adorable was reserved for puppies and grandmas. But nope, turns out adorable is hot. London thinks I’m hot.
I want to ride the high of that compliment.
Only, it doesn’t matter, since I need to stay focused on the reality of the situation.
I steer us toward safer waters. “Maybe we should just work together on this project of yours. I would love to help you. It would bring me a lot of pleasure,” I say, trying to tread carefully around that land mine of a word.
“So we’ll be friends,” she says in invitation, like it’s the most wonderful thing in the world, the idea of us becoming friends.
Maybe it is. Maybe becoming friends could be fantastic.
Except . . .
Even I’m not so much of an optimist or a fool that I believe that. You don’t kiss someone the way we kissed and then make each other friendship bracelets.
But you don’t kiss someone the way we kissed, learn she’s your boss’s sister, and keep moving forward either.
So, this is it.
We trade phone numbers.
For work, rather than for us.
When I open the door of her cherry-red VW bug, we lock eyes and hesitate. I don’t think either one of us is ready to say goodbye.
“I really did have an incredible time tonight,�
�� she says as she slides into her seat. Somehow I find the will to resist bending down and kissing her one more time. Kissing her ear the way she likes it. Brushing my lips against hers, drawing out one or more of her sexy little sighs.
I’m not kidding when I say it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I trudge up the steps to my condo, unlock the door, and am greeted by fifty pounds of I don’t care if you just had the worst best-date-ever, it’s time to show me all your affection.
David Bowie licks my face and gives that happy whine that says no matter how badly that sucker punch of a date hurts, he’s still happy to see me.
Which is reason number 10,522 why I love this dog.
I scratch his head. “Hey there, bud.”
I leash him up and pop next door to Mrs. Morales’s place.
It’s ten o’clock, but the lights are on. That’s my sign that it’s okay to knock.
Sherri opens the door, beaming up at me. “Mira. One of my favorite neighbors.”
I sigh in mock indignation. “I can’t believe I have to compete with Sam for that honor. Is Vin Scully listo?”
Her little beagle, named after the greatest sports broadcaster of all time, answers the question of whether he’s ready by jumping on my leg.
She clips on his blue leash, which matches his adorable Dodgers bandana. “Tú eres un ángel, oso de peluche.”
I smile at Sherri’s term of endearment. She has called me Teddy Bear ever since I moved across from her. Growing up in Los Angeles, I learned to speak Spanish from an early age, so Sherri and I switch back and forth between languages when we talk, like we’re playing verbal hopscotch. “Ah, now you’re pretending I am your favorite.”
“Absolutamente. Since you’re taking him for his late-night escapades.”
“Por nada.” That’s the truth. I walk her guy with mine nearly every night—if I’m home before midnight.
She gives me a curious once-over, eyeing my jeans and crisp white linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up my forearms. “You’re looking sharp.” She winks. “Did you swipe right on someone? I bet she swiped right back.” She taps her chin. “Wait. Is that how it works? It’s right when you like someone? Left when you just want a hookup?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Did you have a hookup tonight?”
I laugh. “It’s swipe right. You just swipe right.”
“Ah, so you like her?”
“What? Where did you get that from? I just said swipe right.”
She gives me a motherly smirk. “But you said more . . . con tus ojos,” she adds, waving her fingers over her eyes. “Do we need to crack open some beers and chat all about your new woman?”
New woman. Do I ever like the sound of that.
But it’s not meant to be with London.
“I did have a date,” I say with a wistful sigh, “but we can’t call her my new woman.”
Sherri taps her wrist, indicating the time. Then she arches a questioning brow. “It’s just after ten, and you’re in your date clothes, showing off your tattoo,” she says, waving to my forearm where a hint of ink edges out beneath my sleeve. “Yet you’re taking the dogs out. Either it’s going to be a late-night date, or you’re home earlier than you’d like. Jansen hasn’t even finished getting this save yet,” she says as the Dodgers’ game plays from a radio.
Sighing, I flash back on London’s words from earlier. “It’s complicated.”
“Then maybe you do need that beer.”
Bowie paws at me, and Vin Scully whimpers. “Maybe I do. But for now, I’ll take the guys for a walk. And let me know when you want Sam and me to come over and move that couch for you. That is, if you still need that from your favorite neighbor—me—and your second favorite—him.”
“Anytime this week would be great from my favorites. Or,” she says, raising a finger, like she just thought of something, “maybe when Sam is leaving for work. No es una mala idea.”
“I get you, abuela Sherri.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “But he doesn’t wear the costumes to work. He puts them on at work.”
“At. On. In. Off. It all works for me.” She waves a hand airily.
I give her a tip of the figurative cap. “We’ll pop in at some point, and I’ll make sure Sam is wearing a shirt this time.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“I know. Just messing with you,” I say as I head off with the pooches, hoping the walk will take my mind off London.
As if it could.
After I drop Vin Scully following our tour, Bowie and I head into my home. I flop on my bed, my chest heavy, and I give myself a pep talk.
Shake it off. She’s just a woman. It was only one date. It’s nothing to be disappointed about. It happens. It’s like when you miss a turn on your GPS and go a mile or two out of your way—annoying, but you get over it.
This date-turned-not-date is a minor hiccup in my day. Even so, I turn to my best friend and say, “What am I going to do?”
Bowie spies his favorite stuffed monkey on the bed, mounts it, and gives it a few pumps.
I roll my eyes. “No. Not that. Trust me, I wish.”
He stops and licks my face, and I laugh. “Did that. Wish I could do that again too.”
But I can’t. No matter how much I want to, I simply cannot.
I roll over in bed and turn off the light. Tonight is an early one for DJ Insomnia.
7
That night
* * *
From the Woman Power Trio, aka the text messages of London and her two besties, Olive and Emery
* * *
London: What is that saying about modern dating?
* * *
Olive: The scary thing about dating is you’re either going to marry the person or break up?
* * *
Emery: OMG, DID YOU GET MARRIED TONIGHT? YOU’RE IN TROUBLE FOR NOT INVITING US, LONDON.
* * *
Olive: Big trouble. Like I-will-never-loan-you-those-black-patent-leather-heels-I-got-from-Target-that-you-love-and-they-don’t-make-anymore trouble.
* * *
London: One, you will never stop loaning me those shoes. They’re like our Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants shoes. And two, the saying is more like dating and Murphy’s Law.
* * *
Olive: Oh. Well, my second choice was going to be “Dating is like the tenth circle of hell.” That’s another saying.
* * *
Emery: Says the woman who is happily married to a guy who walked into her bar two years ago.
* * *
Olive: It happens! I got lucky. Anyway, what’s the problem, London? You learned the guy you like doesn’t do his own laundry? Is he your first cousin? Or does he believe we are all here as part of an alien plot to take over Earth? Was there no spark?
* * *
London: There was so much spark!
* * *
Emery: The problem is alien, then?
* * *
London: Worse. He’s a genuinely nice guy. He says we can’t date because he works for my brother, and because I’m technically an Edge employee too right now. And—cue heavy sighs—he’s right. Plus, his last relationship was tangled up with his work. And, of course, him actually being, ya know, thoughtful and principled makes me like him even more.
* * *
Emery: Ah, so he is an alien—a good guy.
* * *
London: Yes. He’s an alien, Emery. I dated an alien. And I kissed an alien too.
* * *
Olive: Ooh, I just finished this super-hot book about a double-dicked alien who gives quadruple orgasms to Earth ladies. That’s what he calls them—Earth ladies. And trust me, in Dax Long’s voice, nothing sounds hotter. But enough about twin dicks. My condolences on your date . . . not being a dick.
* * *
Emery: How dare he be considerate?
* * *
London: Tell me about it. But hey, Teddy and I will be friends. It’ll be great. I’ll keep the la
ser focus on work and friendship, friendship and work. Besides, that’s what I should be focused on now that I’m back in town regardless.
* * *
Olive: I agree. You need to nail that opportunity you’ve been telling us about.
* * *
London: And nail it I will! I’ll be all work, work, work, friends, friends, friends with Teddy.
* * *
Emery: Have fun being friends with a guy you want to bang, bang, bang, no matter how many alien dicks he has.
* * *
Olive: He has two, Em. Two.
* * *
Emery: I’d have thought he has three, what with all that spark.
8
The next morning, the sun blares through my window, the coffee machine whirrs, and I put on my game face. It’s Monday, so the club is closed, giving me a chance to work on my business plan. Edge is fun, but I’m pretty sure deejaying a part-time all-male revue has a shelf life. And though my weekly radio show is a blast, my dreams are bigger. That’s why during my free time I pour my energy into building up DJ Insomnia’s full-service event business, All Night Entertainment.
How to Get Lucky Page 5
